


While There's Breath in My Body

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29255058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: On a hill in Scotland, Jon watches Martin take flight.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	While There's Breath in My Body

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reine_des_corbeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts).



Martin takes flight, and Jon’s heart follows.

It’s silly, he knows. Martin laughed—warm and fond and only slightly brittle—when Jon insisted on staying on the ground to keep watch. After all, what is Jon going to see from here, that he can’t see from the sky?

But Martin hadn’t pushed it. Neither of them push much, too aware of how fragile the thing between them is. How easily it could break, and then—

No. He needs to stop thinking about it. His eyes find the sky, find Martin on the horizon as the wind picks up and Jon draws his wings tight around his body. As irritating as he often finds all the fluff that comes with owl wings, it certainly comes in handy standing watching on a lonely Scottish hill.

His fingers dig into his arms as he tries to slow his heart, tries to take in the view. Martin is right. It’s beautiful, even breathtaking. And probably better from the sky, coasting low over the ground. With Martin above him, always out of sight.

Damn it. 

Jon flaps his wing as Martin dives, ready to fly as fast as he can to his rescue. But Martin doesn’t fall, his wings catching the wind in plenty of time. Is he laughing? Maybe. And that’s good. Martin deserves to fly free, to stretch his wings outside the cramped confines of the Institute. Jon pulls his own wings tighter around his body and shivers as the wind picks up. All while keeping his gaze locked on Martin.

Maybe he should follow. Martin hadn’t seemed upset when Jon refused, giving him a peck on the tips before taking flight. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t disappointed. That he doesn’t mean he doesn’t need Jon, that Jon shouldn’t be up there with him. But even as he opens his wings and a gives a half-flap, he finds a different sort of panic rising in his chest. If he leaves, Martin may think Jon has abandoned him. No, Jon can fly later. Now he needs to wait.

And Martin is faster anyway. He’ll never catch up. All Jon can ever do is _wait._

Isn’t that what he is? Watch. Listen. Wait. The last is never emphasized, and he supposes ‘Ceaseless Waiter’ brings a rather less sinister picture to mind. But it seems to be a constant for him. 

Still, he supposes he’s good at it. Waiting, and watching. Clinging to the irrational hope that by staying here, he’ll be an anchor. A lighthouse. A beacon, to call Martin home. 

When Martin finally winds his way back to Jon, his wings are damp with mist. Jon’s probably are too, but the thought is far from his mind as he takes a hesitant step towards Martin, searching his face for—for something. Any danger behind the grin he’s wearing, a hint of something too distant his eyes. 

A worrying transparency to his wings.

It may just be the mist, a trick of the eyes, though Jon’s eyes are hard to trick these days. Whatever it is, it’s enough to send Jon sprinting forward, gripped by a panic that was only barely suppressed before and now surges forth again. As beautiful as the landscape is, it reminds him too much to things almost lost, and what he may not have truly found. And he needs to know, needs to feel that Martin is here, is solid, is real.

That he’s Jon’s. 

The ground is damp, always damp and slick with mud, a fact Jon remembers too late, wings flapping frantically to keep his balance. A hand grabs his arm, tugging him forward until another can encircle his waist. Martin’s solid form sways worryingly, his own pale wings joining Jon in an awkward half-flap, the both of them kept standing by a sudden gust of wind.

When it dies down again, they’re both still standing, clinging to each other on the same very sodden hillside. Martin looks at Jon, his expression unreadable until a small smile crosses his face.

“As fun as preening you is, I think we can do it without the added mud?”

“Shut up,” Jon says, hand resting tentatively on Martin’s chest. His face heats at the all too fair comment, given the incident last week. “Though the preening was very nice,” he adds, ducking his head to hide what his face can’t.

Jon’s wings are pulled tight to his back. Even standing here like this, Martin’s arm around his waist, he still isn’t sure of his welcome. But when he dares to look up again, there’s something distant in Martin’s eyes. Something Jon can’t ignore, won’t ignore. Because Martin _is_ his. 

Before Jon loses his nerve again, he opens his wings, enfolding Martin in them as Martin lets out a startled help. But he doesn’t protest, the surprise melting into fondness as he gently runs his fingers through Jon’s feathers. 

“You looked cold,” Jon mutters. “My wings, they’re, you know.”

“I do,” Martin says. “Perfect cold weather gear. I’m definitely bringing you on my next arctic expedition.”

“Honestly, they don’t help as much as you’d think up there.” Jon shudders at the memory, pushing it aside as he dares a glance at the landscape again. Less appealing now, for not having Martin in it. “It really is beautiful here.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, something odd in his voice. “Beautiful.”

A hand on Jon’s cheek makes him turn his faze back to Martin, to find Martin’s eyes are clear and fixed on him. This time when Jon shivers, he knows it isn’t from the cold. And Martin’s lips are so warm, when they find his.

“Let’s go home,” Jon says when they break apart, as breathless as after any flight. Home. The word feels strange, but it makes Martin smile. Makes Jon feel like maybe this can last.

“Jon. You have to let me go if we’re going to head back down.” Martin worms his fingers underneath Jon’s feathers, adjusting them and rubbing against the skin underneath when Jon fails to relent.

“I won’t. I—I can’t.” It’s too raw, a conversation they half-had too many times and never quite finish. But maybe that’s enough. Stumbling towards something they both don’t quite believe they have yet.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Jon.” But despite his words, the gentle teasing, his eyes hold shadows of a fear Jon wishes he didn’t understand. Wishes he could just make disappear. So they can be both free. 

“I know,” Jon says, stepping away reluctantly and folding his wings against his back. “I just—I wanted you to know.”

He tries to turn away, only to be stopped by a hand grabbing his, weaving their fingers together. The wind ruffles Martin’s hair, toys with his feathers, but it can’t take him away. Not anymore.

Martin hesitates, searching Jon’s face before he lifts their clasped hands and places a kiss on Jon’s chapped knuckles.

“I don’t plan on letting you go either.”

Then Martin starts down the hill. And Jon goes with him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the folk song "If I Was a Blackbird".


End file.
